“I daresay they would be kinder to my floors than the water oxen,” Lady Huntingdon interjected.
“But we must consider the cakes. You are very resourceful, monsieur, and I’m sure you have already considered that they might eat all the cakes if we let them in. I cannot allow that.”
“Well, they’re city beasts, ma’am. They’ve learned their manners.”
She liked that. She was trying very hard not to laugh. Who needed dancing? He could do this all night, with her.
“What a marvelous plan! But you wouldn’t mind, Lady Huntingdon, if it gave you the reputation for eccentricity?” She turned to their hostess, but he noticed she kept her eyes on him for as long as possible as her head turned, as though reluctant to look away. “You see Mr. Mason and I invent the latest craze. We are very clever, aren’t we?”
Lady Huntingdon looked between Mason and Madame de Vauteuil with an unmistakable look of satisfaction before answering. “Indeed, I believe you are a perfectly suited pair for such devilry. I’m sure I should shudder to leave you alone. Alas, I see Mrs. Linwood has damaged her monstrous fine headdress and is very distressed over it, the poor dear. I’ll take her to the retiring room where we may repair it. I leave my dear friend in your care, Mr. Mason. I won’t return to find a pair of ocelots in evening dress, I trust?”
From the way Lady Huntingdon looked at him, he realized abruptly that he had been forgetting to play his part. He hadn’t done or said anything incriminating, though, and he didn’t think there was any harm in letting Lady Huntingdon see he was capable of absurd humor. He assured her he would not abandon Madame de Vauteuil to stand alone, nor replace her with any jungle animals, and their hostess fluttered off to attend to Mrs. Linwood and her broken ostrich plume.
There was an awkward little silence. He was suddenly shy to be left alone with these perfect blue eyes and the shiny waves of hair with the velvet ribbon woven through. She was so pretty and polished. He was wearing the finest clothes he’d ever owned, yet he felt like he was barefoot and grubby, dressed again in the remnants of a flour sack. He became convinced there was dirt behind his ears, even.
“You have been in London long, Mr. Mason?” Marie-Anne de Vauteuil asked him politely.
It snapped him out of his scrutiny of her gown, a dusky pink moiré beneath a diaphanous golden overlay. He was wondering how much just the overlay would cost, and how many hours it must have taken some nameless woman to make the embroidered pattern on it. Obviously he hadn’t been here long enough to grow accustomed to the riches.
“Barely two months, ma’am. Or Miss.” He was fumbling now, because her eyes were dangerous. “Or Madame? I’m sorry, my manners have also been here for barely two months. Just long enough to learn how bad it is to bungle a title.”
“Oh there are worse things to bungle with these people, I assure you, though not many.” She said it like it was a secret between them, and her heavily accented voice reminded him that despite her appearance, she was also an outsider. “There are not many that have the same good humor as Lady Huntingdon. But these English can be quite forgiving, if one is hopelessly foreign and very, very charming.”
“And if two are hopelessly foreign, with no Englishmen involved?”
“Then one of these two must be very, very, very charming,” she answered with a full and unrestrained smile that put a deep dimple into her right cheek.
He smiled back at her, because it was impossible not to – and because he had a very similar dimple deep in his left cheek. He saw her notice it and widen her own smile even further. They stood there gazing at each other like a couple of sapheads, mirror-image smiles of delight plastered on their faces.
Coup de foudre, he thought out of nowhere. It was one of the very few bits of French he knew: lightning strike. That’s what it felt like, standing there smiling with her.
Lord almighty, this was not good. And lord almighty, he did not care.
“Well one of us is definitely that charming, Miss Marie-Anne de Vauteuil,” he finally said, and his voice was low and slow and full of Kentucky. Not at all who he was supposed to be. “Or Madame. Which is it?”
She broke the gaze at last, a little look down as she busied herself by tugging up her gloves. “I prefer to be called just Marie-Anne, but it seems that is not allowed. Between us, I believe I am properly a Miss Marie-Anne, for I have never been a Mrs. Anything. But here in London I am called madame, for very tiresome reasons. Would you like to hear them?”
“I’d rather hear you tell me why you’ve come to London from the country, and where in the country, and where you are staying and if you’d like to go for a drive in the park with me tomorrow. I hear that’s an acceptable thing to do here.” Not at all acceptable for him, though. What was he thinking?
Probably because he was being so obvious, she seemed to suddenly become conscious that they were standing in a very well-populated ball room. Her eyes still twinkled at him and her mouth still held its curve of amusement, but she took the tiniest step back from him before turning to look out at the dancers.
“This is rather a lot of questions, Mr. Mason. But it must be that you see how I am flooded with young suitors who fall over themselves to beg I will dance with them.” She gestured eloquently with her fan at the empty space around them. “How heroic you are, to save me from it with your conversation! But I shall only answer if you will do the same.”
“Agreed,” he said. What a shame. He’d have to lie to her. “Where in the country were you, before you came to London?”
“It is a town called Bartle, in Herefordshire. That is north and west from London,” she explained. “Its proper name is Bartle-on-the-Glen, though no one has ever been able to explain to me why. Glens are Scottish, I thought, and we are nowhere near Scotland.”
“Is there a glen, though?”
“Oh yes, a very pretty one.”
“Perhaps a Scotsman first lived there?”
“Or a Scotswoman.” She smiled again, but kept her eyes on the dancers. “Now it is your turn, Mr. Mason. From where in America do you come to us?”
Here he could be truthful, thankfully.
“New York City. But I’m not from there. I was born and raised in a place called Kentucky. Have you heard of it?”
“Kentucky,” she said, trying out the syllables. Her mouth liked the feel of them, he could tell. “It is a province?”
“We call them states.”
“Yes of course. Kentucky,” she said again in that adorable way. She actually made him feel nostalgic for the place. “The name of your village?”
“Skillman.” Less poetic – or so he thought, until she repeated it.
“Skeel-man. Perhaps a very skilled man first lived there!” She seemed delighted with herself for thinking of that, and turned her smile to him again. “But now you must say why you have come to London. You are first, this time.”
“Business, ma’am.”
She gave a pretty little scowl. “Well that is my answer too, if we are allowed to be so very vague.”
“The lumber business. Or timber, I should say.” Before he got to London, he had considered saying the fur trade, because he knew it better. But there was too much American fur decorating London’s finest citizens. Inventing a fur-trading enterprise would invite too many questions and inevitably lead to an unsustainable load of deceit. Lumber was boring, and these people cared more about the riches he said it had brought him than they did the actual product. “It’s also very tiresome, but I would not want to be vague. And your business in London?”
She opened her mouth and took a breath to say something, then stopped. She was thinking very hard. Was she lying too? Now that was an intriguing proposition.
“Social restitution,” she finally said, with a note of triumph.
“That’s not tiresome at all. What does it mean?”
She gave an impish grin, very satisfied with herself. “That is not in your original set of questions, monsieur, and I decline to answer you.”
The music was stopping, and he saw her friends coming toward them. God, he’d have to deal with Summerdale, who probably could spot Madame de Vauteuil flirting with a red-headed American across a dozen ball rooms and might be just the sort to ask all sorts of uncomfortable questions about Mason’s fictitious business. No time to waste.
“Your direction,” he said hurriedly. “Where may I call on you, madame?”
She looked slightly taken aback. “I have not said you may call on me.”
The smile sliding so abruptly from his face wasn’t nearly as embarrassing as the flush that replaced it. It was purple, and it mostly stayed in his neck but crept just a little up the sides of his face when he least wanted it to – like now.
“Of course. My apologies.”
“Oh, monsieur, you must not think–”
“I see your friends are returning. I’ll leave you in their care.” He gave a quick, taut bow. “It’s been a pleasure, madame.”
He beat a hasty retreat and told himself he was lucky. He couldn’t call on her, and a drive in the park with Marie-Anne de Vauteuil was out of the question. London society was very different from the world he knew, but it wasn’t that different. He couldn’t flirt shamelessly with a woman and then drive through the park with her while his fiancée cooled her heels at home.
Chapter Three
Marie-Anne came down to breakfast to find Lord Summerdale sipping coffee and talking with Collins, the butler. He rose swiftly as she entered and greeted her, then returned to his conversation as she filled her plate at the sideboard. It was lovely, the heaps and heaps of food. There were servants, and a carriage if she wanted to go anywhere, and when it was cold all the fires were lit without any worry of running out of fuel. She had been here for six days, doing the social rounds necessary to discreetly announce she was in the good graces of the most respectable Earl of Summerdale and so must therefore be acceptable to everyone who mattered. At the end of a week, her reputation seemed largely rehabilitated and she was becoming accustomed to living a bit extravagantly.
Marie-Anne’s allowance had never permitted any luxuries, and when Helen had lived in Bartle too, her own allowance had been even less. Now that marriage had brought a change in fortunes, Helen had insisted on sharing the wealth with Marie-Anne, who regularly found herself accepting deliveries of gifts large and small: great huge hampers of food, new stockings that Helen said were not her preferred length but were perfect for Marie-Anne, a box of bed linens that had languished unused in a cupboard at the Summerdale estate and should not go to waste, piles of the latest fashion magazines – “because you love them,” read the accompanying note.
The result was that Marie-Anne now lived quite comfortably at her little cottage in Bartle. But it was nothing like the luxury at the Summerdale London townhouse, and she was enjoying being so pampered.
“Have you abducted my wife, madame?” asked Lord Summerdale when she sat down at the table with her plate. “She has completely disappeared after announcing she would say goodnight to you last evening. I suppose she fell asleep talking with you into the night?”
“Oh mon pauvre,” she murmured with a smile as she spread jam on her toast. “To sleep in a cold bed, to wake up alone! You will never invite me to visit again if you are deprived of her embrace one night of every six. It is very disagreeable of me.”
Lord Summerdale was nearly as easy to discomfit as his wife was, though he was far better at hiding his chagrin. He did not give her a repressive look, but merely cleared his throat and quietly asked the butler to check on the progress of the servants who were loading baggage into the carriage. The footman who stood attendance while they ate went with the butler because Summerdale had, by some impossible to discern signal, clearly indicated he wished a moment of privacy.
Abashed, Marie-Anne put down her toast.
“I am here so many days and still I forget that I must not say outrageous things before the servants. Forgive me, my lord. I will try very hard not to bring you disgrace, and undo all the work you have invested in repairing my standing.”
“Good God, Marie-Anne, if you will become so meek and serious, I will undo the work myself.”
He actually shocked her a bit. Taking the lord’s name in vain was one thing, but calling her by her first name was entirely contrary to his ingrained sense of propriety. She blinked at him, confounded into silence for a moment before gasping in delight.
“Oh! May I call you Stephen now, my lord?” She gave a gleeful little clap of her hands when he grinned – reluctantly, she knew. The un-stiffening of Stephen Hampton was an ongoing and delightful process to watch. “Only in private, of course, among friends. But I cannot say I will remember in front of the servants, so perhaps you should not give me such liberties.”
“There is no need to worry about our servants in the matter of these small details, I assure you. All of them, and most especially Collins, have developed the greatest affection for Helen. They cannot help but forgive her little eccentricities and they have been warned they may expect similar from you.”
Marie-Anne supposed by “eccentricities” he must mean Helen’s genuine interest in the servants’ welfare, opinions, and feelings. Marie-Anne knew she herself was likely to be even more over-familiar with the staff. Well, it was what they called over-familiar, but Marie-Anne only called it amiable. She felt fraudulent, putting herself above them, trying to keep a calculated distance at all times from the people who were there when she dressed and washed and ate. She always had. The circumstances in which she herself had been raised were far less elevated than these people who were employed as servants.
“In the matter of your reputation,” Stephen continued, “I don’t believe there’s anything you’re likely to do that could possibly damage us in any way. Even if you did so, you can be confident that Helen and I would far rather have you as an acquaintance than anyone who would condemn you.”
“Even if it would cause havoc for your many business interests?” she asked, knowing that this was virtually the only reason he cared at all for society’s opinions of him now.
“Even then,” he agreed. “The Summerdale fortune is hardly at stake. So you must feel free to be your natural self, which I’m sure will attract a great number of admirers. You may break as many hearts as you like.”
She bit into her toast, considering. It was true that he was unlikely to suffer if she caused a scandal, but any bad behavior was sure to reflect poorly on Helen.
“Well, perhaps not many hearts,” she said after swallowing. “Just one or two, and I will make sure they do not belong to very prominent men.”
“Ah, and we arrive at the matter of Mr. Mason,” he said smoothly, politely ignoring how she choked on a fresh bite of toast. “I’m sorry to say I’ve not met him, though I heard only last week that Sir George Whipple was considering an investment in Mr. Mason’s business. I had intended to look further into it but other affairs have taken precedence. I will be happy to leave instruction with my secretary, however, to inquire after his reputation and background in my absence.”
She wanted to protest that she was indifferent to Mr. Mason’s background and reputation, but curiosity got the better of her.
“You think he could be an adventurer?” she asked.
“I think if he were an adventurer, Whipple is a perfect dupe. But there is no reason to think Mr. Mason is a fraud.”
“Mr. Mason is a fraud?” Helen was entering, a stricken look on her face as she caught the last words. “No! But he looked so very kind!”
“Yes, my love, charlatans specialize in looking harmless.” Stephen rose and went to the sideboard to pour coffee for her. “Come, you’ve had a late start and you must eat quickly or our schedule will be ruined.”
“I had to dress, and I was rearranging which books to take in my small valise, and how can I eat when you tell me a charlatan has been flirting with my dearest friend!” But she said it as she reached for a plate. She and Marie-Anne had indeed fal
len asleep while talking, and the talk had largely centered on how very handsome and charming Mr. Mason was.
“I was saying there’s no reason to think ill of him.” Stephen assured her. “If he were an adventurer, half the moneyed men of our acquaintance would have been approached already.”
“What if he approaches them while we are on the other side of the North Sea? However shall we protect Marie-Anne from it?”
“I believe I am protected by my lack of money, mon amie,” Marie-Anne said. “And of course my lack of interest in timber. Now, if his business was to import the shawls of Kashmir, it would be a different matter. I would sell off your silver so I might invest. But trees? No, I am very safe.”
Helen sat and, dear friend that she was, transferred an extra piece of toast onto Marie-Anne’s plate from her own, followed by a slice of seed cake. “Well, you must keep it in mind if you meet him again, and watch very carefully for any deceit.” She sipped at her coffee but did not pick up her fork. She was frowning. “You did say he was so very charming. It would be dreadful if he sought to gain your trust for criminal reasons.”
Marie-Anne opened her mouth to distract Helen from her worry with some amusing nonsense about the charms of American men, but she was not the only one who looked to soothe her anxious friend.
“I’ll have a quick word with my secretary and ask him to look out for any news of Mr. Mason that might be cause for alarm,” said Stephen, and relief immediately came over Helen’s face. She cast a grateful look at her husband. “But there will be no time to consult with him,” he said with a pointed look at Helen’s plate, “if we linger at breakfast.”
Helen smiled and began to eat. Between bites, she told Marie-Anne that she must stay at the townhouse however long she liked, that she had two more dresses that she insisted were not to her liking and the modiste would make arrangements to alter them to Marie-Anne’s measurements, and that Marie-Anne must not be shy with Collins because he would take care of her “as well as if you are Lady Summerdale yourself.” As though he only waited for this declaration, the butler reappeared and informed them that the baggage was loaded and the carriage ready and waiting to whisk them away to Norway.
House of Cads (Ladies of Scandal Book 2) Page 3
